"I can't wait t' try Master Alewin's new creation. I've heard it's somethin' mighty fine!"
"Don't go actin' like some kinda connoisseur, lad. Ye couldn't tell yer mouth from yer ass. Ye just want t' get yerself smashed!"
"At least I can hold me liquor, ye old bat. Don't think I've forgotten how ye went down in the seconds round last year. A downright embarrassin' sight, it was!"
"How many times do I have t' tell ye—that didn't count! There was somethin' wrong with me drink that day, I swear it!"
Zeke listened amusedly to the two dwarves walking ahead of him. Despite their sharp words, he was almost certain they were mother and child. The way they both wore wide smiles, clearly unbothered by the exchange, made it obvious that their banter was all in good fun.
Soon, the two dwarfs were allowed onto the large plaza, and it was Zeke's turn to approach the checkpoint. The stocky dwarf gave him an disapproving look. "Are you sure you want to attend the festival boy?" he asked.
Zeke flashed the man his most confident grin. "Naturally. Otherwise, you dwarves might start thinking you're the only ones who can hold their liquor."
The dwarf snorted, a grudging smirk tugging at his lips, but he didn't argue. Instead, he pocketed the hefty entrance fee—an entire gold coin—and stepped aside to let him pass.
Zeke pushed open the unnecessarily massive doors and stepped into one of the largest halls he had ever seen. The cavernous space was carved directly into the heart of the mountain, its vaulted ceiling soaring high above and supported by colossal stone columns. Each pillar was a masterwork, intricately sculpted to resemble ancient dwarven heros, their solemn expressions etched into the stone as if bearing the weight of the mountain.
The air was alive with a blend of tantalizing scents—roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and the sharp, heady aroma of ale and mead. The cheerful hum of chatter and laughter mingled with the lively tunes of a dwarven band playing in the corner, creating an atmosphere of warmth and celebration.Massive wooden tables stretched across the hall, their surfaces scarred and stained from countless revelries over the years.
Every seat was occupied by dwarves of all shapes and sizes, their hearty laughter and booming voices reverberating off the stone walls. The festival was in full swing, with apprentices frantically rolling in barrels of frothy brews on creaking carts, barely keeping pace with the insatiable demand.
The sheer energy of the scene stole Zeke's breath.
He had never witnessed anything of this scale before. It seemed as if every dwarf in the city had raided their coffers to join the festivities. No wonder Gunner had spoken so highly of the event—it was a spectacle unlike any other.
Zeke strolled past the tables, taking in the crowd. While dwarves dominated the hall, he noticed the occasional non-dwarf mingled among them. A pair of burly humans, likely apprentice metalworkers, raised their mugs in a toast. Scattered merchants stood out with their polished smiles and silken words, working the room as naturally as breathing. Even a small group of elves sat apart, their elegant postures contrasting starkly with the raucous atmosphere around them.
Zeke grabbed a mug from a nearby table and settled into a quiet corner, his eyes lingering on the fragrant brew in his hand. While he appeared absorbed in the drink, his Sphere of Awareness was hard at work. His attention was primarily fixed on the merchants flitting from group to group, exchanging pleasantries and engaging in what seemed to be business discussions.
It didn't take him long to piece together who they were speaking to and why, but the findings left him unsatisfied. The merchants were leveraging their personal contacts, seeking introductions to the truly influential dwarves in the room. While effective for some, it wasn't the kind of strategy Zeke was after.
For one, he lacked such connections to rely on. More importantly though, he understood that dwarves didn't truly respect this approach. While ingratiating oneself through intermediaries might be acceptable—even commonplace—in human culture, dwarves preferred bold, direct tactics. It was a cultural divide that the merchants apparently struggled to bridge, and Zeke was determined not to make the same mistake.
Taking a hearty gulp of his ale, Zeke discreetly shifted his location, continuing his reconnaissance. Moving steadily through the hall, he repeated his subtle observation routine. By the time he was done, Zeke had gotten a detailed understanding of the event. He now knew where the most influential families were seated, where the master brewers resided, and everything else worth noting.
To his surprise, Akasha had gone a step further. She had crafted a mental map and neatly overlaid it in the corner of his vision. The map featured an outline of the hall, complete with tiny annotations marking the locations of his most important targets. It was an unexpected but welcome application of her abilities—one Zeke hadn't even considered before.
He sent Akasha a wave of gratitude. Her timely assistance would make his next move significantly easier.
Tilting his tankard upward, Zeke savored the final drops of the dwarven ale. What had started as a simple prop to help him blend in had turned into an unexpectedly enjoyable indulgence.
As he studied the empty tankard in his hands, his gaze caught on a small emblem embossed on the handle—a grinning dwarf. Recognition flickered in his mind, he had read about this. This was the insignia of the brewmaster responsible for crafting the ale.
Zeke had seen it somewhere in this hall. His eyes quickly scanned the venue, a tasks that was made easy by the fact that he towered over nearly everyone by at least a foot. Soon, he found what he was looking for. Each of the four corners of the room were dedicated to one of the four brewing families.
In the north, there was the Barrelthane family. Their stall was a sturdy construction of dark oak, adorned with iron banding that mimicked the look of their famed giant barrels. The family members were unmistakable—broad-shouldered and clad in leather aprons, their hands rough from decades of crafting both barrels and brew. Above their heads, the Barrelthane mark gleamed proudly: a circular oak barrel with a hammer embossed on its face, surrounded by runic carvings that seemed to glow faintly in the warm light of the hall.
To the east, the Alewin family presided over their corner with an air of practiced hospitality. Their area was draped in dark brown banners trimmed with gold, matching the colors of their emblem: a tankard overflowing with foam, crossed by two barley stalks. The foam rose into the shape of a mountain peak, a subtle nod to their dwarven roots. The Alewin dwarves were merry and loud, raising mugs high as they toasted with passersby, their laughter echoing across the hall.
In the south, the Maltforge family had taken a more austere approach. Their corner was marked by a glowing forge centerpiece, its flames flickering like real fire beneath the copper and black banner bearing their emblem. The forge on the banner showed a grain stalk lying across an anvil, the steam curling upward into a mug's outline. The Maltforge dwarves were a quiet and disciplined bunch, their focus on perfection clear in the way they poured and presented their drinks with care and precision.
Finally, in the west, the Hopsgrin family's corner burst with life and humor. Emerald green decorations adorned their area, and their emblem—a jovial dwarf face with a beard of cascading hop vines framed by a brewing vat—stood tall above the scene. The Hopsgrin dwarves matched their mark's energy: beaming, hearty folk who were quick to offer a joke or a sample of their brew to anyone who passed by. Their laughter mixed with the chatter of the crowd, creating an atmosphere of unrestrained joy.
Zeke's gaze swept over the four brewing families, each corner of the hall radiating its own unique energy. Unexpectedly, he felt a growing urge to sample the creations of each one. Running a quick calculation in his head, he realized he still had plenty of time before the main event began. Besides, getting to know the brewmasters might not be a bad idea—they held considerable influence in their own right.
A wry smile tugged at his lips as he questioned his motives. Was he genuinely strategizing, or simply finding excuses to indulge himself? Either way, it hardly mattered—his feet were already carrying him toward the nearest stall.
He approached the section marked by dark brown banners bearing the emblem of the Alewind family. Having already sampled the Maltforge brew earlier, he was eager to see how their rivals measured up.
To Zeke's surprise, there was already another human at the stall. As he approached, he overheard the tail end of the man's conversation.
"…offer better terms than your current partner, Mr. Alewind. The taxes could be waived under special circumstances, nearly doubling your profits."
Zeke winced inwardly, not because the offer was unconvincing, but because he saw a shadow of his former self in the merchant. Just days ago, he might have attempted a similar approach to win over the dwarf. However, he now knew the merchant was doomed to fail.
As expected, the dwarf didn't even let him finish. "Do I look so poor to ye that I'd care about a bit o' gold, lad? Listen close, an' listen well—I ain't interested in whatever it is yer tryin' t' offer."
Zeke stood back and watched as the merchant failed repeatedly to convince the stubborn old dwarf. It was almost amusing to see the confusion grow on the man's face as he tried to figure out where he went wrong. Eventually, the brewmaster had enough and flat out asked him to leave.
Swallowing his frustration, the merchant asked for the dwarf to think about the offer before finally walking off. Seizing the opportunity, Zeke stepped forward. However, the dwarf didn't seem pleased to see him.
"I swear, lad, if yer tryin' t' sell me somethin', I'll clobber ye t' death right where ye stand!"
Zeke snorted, amused. He was starting to develop a liking for the dwarves' straightforwardness. Ironically, it reminded him of the Titan woman he had met in the jungles of Irroch. The two species were opposites in stature, yet nearly identical in character.
"What are you on about, old man?" Zeke asked, pretending not to have overheard their earlier conversation. "I came to drink, but if that's your way of saying you can't fulfill that request, I'll just head somewhere else." Zeke glanced around the hall theatrically, his eyes lighting up when he spotted the nearest stall. "Oh, the Maltforge area looks busy. Maybe I'll just—"
"Who says I can't fulfill that blasted request? Sit yer arse down, ye stinky human bastard. Ye ain't leavin' this place 'til yer properly shitfaced, ye hear me?"
Zeke smirked and obediently sat down in front of the bar, waiting for the old man to serve him. The dwarf glared at him for a moment before turning to inspect his inventory, muttering about how the Maltforge family were unimaginative hacks who would be better off making machine oil than ale.
After rummaging for a while, the dwarf found a crate of bottles hidden behind a wall of boxes. With a triumphant exclamation, he brought it over to the bar, filling two mugs from the deceptively small bottle. Zeke immediately noticed the spatial enchantment on the bottle, guessing it contained much more than it appeared.
"Ha!" the man exclaimed, placing one mug in front of Zeke and taking the other for himself. "This'll put some hair on yer chest, lad. Let's see how ye walk over to those blasted blabbermouths after 'avin' a proper brew."
Zeke ignored the man's boasting, his attention already on the swirling dark liquid in front of him. He couldn't tell exactly what it was made of, but it smelled like sweet berries mixed with something pleasantly sour.
He clinked his cup with the dwarf's and took a careful sip. It exploded in his mouth—sweet, ripe berries clashing with the sharp bite of fermented barley, followed by a rich, smoky undertone. The warmth spread quickly, not just through his mouth but down into his chest, a comforting heat that tingled at the edges of his senses. As the aftertaste lingered, he detected a subtle, earthy depth, like a forgotten forest floor, leaving him wanting more.
Before he knew it, Zeke found himself taking a second, larger gulp, then a third. In no time, he was holding the cup upside down over his head, urging out the last drop of the rich liquid.
He only snapped back to his senses when he heard a chuckle from across the table. The dwarf had been watching him the entire time, an amused grin plastered across his smug face.
"Not too shabby, eh?"
Zeke put the cup down, cleared his throat, and tried to regain some dignity. "The taste is quite pleasant, but it's a bit too weak for my taste."
The dwarf's grin faltered for an instant, then redoubled with a devious edge. "Ye brat. Hope ye know what yer doin', challengin' me like that."
Zeke smiled, unbothered. His response seemed to please the dwarf.
"What's yer name? I'm Varek, by the way—Varek Alewin."
"Ezekiel," he introduced himself. "My friends call me Zeke, though. You can call me that too—if you pour me another mug of that berry juice."
The dwarf chuckled heartily, finishing his drink and refilling both their cups. "Tell me, Zeke, what brings a human lad like yerself all th' way t' our little corner o' the world?"